


Grief

by Scutter



Series: On the Periphery [3]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 04:25:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/935326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scutter/pseuds/Scutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kaidan tries to deal with Shepard's death after the destruction of the SR-1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grief

It had been four weeks since he got home. Six, since the Alliance ship had picked them up from their escape pods, patched up wounds, declared Shepard dead.

Oh, god, Shepard was dead.

It was official now.

So many members of the crew lost, injured, despairing. 

What was he supposed to do? Comfort a krogan? Did Wrex even grieve? He didn’t seem to. He maintained a respectful quietness around the rest of the crew, but made no displays of what humans would recognise as grief. 

Garrus had performed a turian funeral rite, before they had dropped him off on Palaven. It has seemed a beautiful and intricate thing, even if Kaidan hadn’t understood the details and nuances.

Liara… god knew what she was thinking, and Kaidan had to admit that he didn’t really care. She’d followed Shepard around like a lost puppy, even while the ship around them burned. Didn’t she realise that he was the captain? He couldn’t leave until everyone else had. So get the fucking crew into the escape pods, and you’re saving Shepard’s life right there…

Tali had cried. He really liked Tali. They’d sat together in a quiet corner of the ship and she’d complained about the mess inside her helmet from her tears, and Kaidan had let his own tears fall, grateful for company as miserable as himself. In the nicest possible way, of course.

Joker… He hated Joker. Trying to save a ship, at the expense of Shepard’s life? A hunk of twisted metal and minerals, no matter how well designed, versus a living, breathing beacon of light in the galaxy? The only reason he had kept his feelings to himself was because he had the idle notion that Shepard had respected Joker’s decision. He didn’t believe that old tripe of ‘Shepard would have wanted them to get along’. Shepard didn’t want anything. Shepard was dead.

But Joker? The fucking bastard deserved to have every bone in his body broken. It wouldn’t be a difficult job, either. The thought brought a grim, maudlin chuckle to Kaidan’s lips, that cracked and ended on a sob.

Shepard was dead.

How was he supposed to live with that?

And so now he haunted his parents’ house. Ate the food his mother put in front of him, forcing it down only through years of refined discipline. Stared out over the bay for hours on end. Made coffee that he never got around to drinking, lost in thought as the steam wafted towards the ceiling and the cup cooled in his hands.

His father understood. Losing a CO – especially one who garnered as much respect as Shepard had – was like losing a limb. He brought Kaidan whiskey and sat beside him, condolences shared through silent company. His mother didn’t quite get it, thought it was like losing a boss at work. Her grasp of the concept simply fell short, and she tended to leave him alone, unsure what to say, and uncomfortable with the silence.

They had gotten a dog, sometime in his absence, a tan colored mongrel with a kind face and long hair. She would come and put her chin on Kaidan’s knee, and he’d have to fight back tears as she looked up at him with soft, mournful eyes. 

He couldn’t read, the words blurring somewhere between the page and his mind. He couldn’t work – not much need for it anyway, since he was on compassionate leave at the moment. He chopped wood for his parents, filling the woodshed in preparation for the coming winter. It was repetitive, numbing work that kept his body occupied while his mind was elsewhere. Back on a ship that was burning. Back in a bed with a warm body beside his own. Back in uniform, saluting a young, cocky commander for the first time, before their mission started and the whole galaxy went to hell.

He lay in bed at night, the sheets cool against his body… then warmer, as he lay still, barely breathing, limp and mournful. 

He closed his eyes. Remembered the way Shepard’s skin felt against his own. Remembered his scent, husky murmurs in his ear, the calluses on his fingers, the touch of rough stubble against his cheek.

Remembered the taste of him, both above, and below.

And unbidden, his hand stole downwards, into his own briefs. And he imagined someone else’s hand, firm and callused and slightly larger than his own, so eager to wring cries of pleasure from him.

There was no pleasure, now. Only the echo of better times. Strokes of misery, not joy. 

His body tensed, gave up its essence, leaving his soul empty and his mind in turmoil. Guilt fluttered at the edges of his vision, as he gave himself up to sleep.


End file.
